All my hiding places are taken.

I have hiding places. Don't you?

Hide and seek is the most annoying children's game ever invented. A whiney, usually quite shrill child's voice calls out numbers while other equally shrill and giggling children search for little spots to wait in until they can all just start running around like maniacs, before at least one of them probably falls down, skins their knee and cries. The children left standing continue on their path toward getting hurt, either by getting slapped on the back to be tagged "it," or by running smack face forward into the "safe" they somehow didn't see coming.

I don't know. I've either tripped and skinned my knee, or somebody's pushed me down, and either way I'm totally annoyed.

I once read a magazine article interviewing Demi Moore, and she recounted how she liked to hide in her closet and listen to old records when she was feeling badly. Today, I'm pretty sure when she said "closet" she was referring to some ginormous room she calls "the walk in," but when I originally read the article I didn't really think of how much more stuff and space Demi Moore probably has then I do, and I decided I might copy her. I threw some pillows and a candle and some headphones and a flashlight and a book into my not-walk-in closet in my not-mansion sized one bedroom apartment in Hollywood's Little Armenia, just down the street from the Jumbo's Clown room, and prepared for some alone time. After about ten minutes, I felt pretty stupid. And hot.

I realize now, I was just looking for a hiding spot.  This wasn't an ideal spot of course, and I think I would have rather skinned my knee then have told anybody I knew at the time of the silly idea I had to get some personal space in a two foot corner of my bedroom (on top of my boots and under my pajamas), but it did turn out to be the beginning of the search for the perfect solitary oasis. Thus I had begun my quest for the ideal space, just outside of all other spaces, that I could call my own. The space for me, by me.

I never went back to a closet, or to any other physically stationary place really, but found myself safe and alone in a variety of outer-moving and inner-still locals. Yoga, the gym, a walk, poetry, tarot cards, meditation, prayer, blogs and guitar have all taken turns at being that safe space.  

Tonight I have tried to revisit one or two of these places, and it seems that these kinds of spaces, unlike closets or tables or boxes or beds or swings or slides, can sometimes be quite difficult to locate. I suppose the transitory, easy-to-loose-track of, movable nature of these locations make for excellent hiding places when you eventually do find them, but finding them to begin with can be quite the challenge.

All this to say what I don't want to say.

My fingers hurt. My breath is uneasy. My knack is rusty and my melodies are uncooperative  My rhythm is shaky, my picking is lazy. My confidence is wavering and my heart is sore.

My favorite hiding place is alluding me. My guitar won't speak to me. Perhaps because I've been gone so long? What is the length of a guitar's grudge?  Are its feelings measured by stings or frets? Ah-ha! I see. My guitar is fretting, and so am I. We need to hide and sing and be safe and alone together. 

My guitar needs a hiding place from me. 

And I need to rub my skinned knees.

I'm blogged out. 

Song coming soon. 

Promises, promises.

-Xoxo

                                                                            -  Xoxo